


we'll be just fine

by mouse_motif



Category: The AM Archives (Podcast), The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Joan Needs A Hug, Owen needs a hug, Owen's in the process of moving on, Post-Canon Fix-It, Relationship Discussions, but it's a messy process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22539889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouse_motif/pseuds/mouse_motif
Summary: Owen wakes up in the hospital.Things must be fine, he thinks, if he wound up in a hospital. That probably means the AM didn't explode after all. Probably.Major spoilers/canon divergence from the end of AM Archives episode 14 onward
Relationships: Joan Bright & Owen Thompson | Agent Green, Joan Bright/Owen Thompson | Agent Green
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	we'll be just fine

**Author's Note:**

> GUESS who made an AO3 account just to post this fic I've been noodling with since episode 15 came out (like...eight months ago...I guess I'm still not over it.)
> 
> Major spoilers/canon divergence from the AM Archives episode 14 onward.

This _hurts_. 

Existing _hurts_ and Owen just wants to go back to sleep, back to whatever black abyss he'd been drifting through, but now he's awake and every breath feels like it's stabbing him and--

_Helen._

With an effort, Owen swallows a sharp lungful of air and forces his eyes open. He's got to _move_ , he's got to find Joan and Sam and Alex and Jackson and he's…he's…

...He's in a hospital. 

_Okay_. Things must be fine, he thinks, if he wound up in a hospital. That probably means the AM didn't explode after all. Probably.

Something rustles beside him, and Owen twists his head--the edge of an oxygen mask digging into his cheek--to see a figure stirring in an uncomfortable-looking chair against the wall.

"Owen?" they whisper. 

"Joan?" he croaks back, barely able to believe it.

 _"Owen!"_ She's already leaping out of the chair, and the bed becomes a complicated tangle of IV tubes and oxygen lines as she throws herself into a hug. It _hurts_ \--everything about it hurts; her grip is tight--but it's _good_. He hadn't realized how cold he was until there are warm arms wrapped around him. Her fabric softener is still the same brand he uses--the same brand he started buying back when they did their laundry together--and it smells like a home that seems awfully far away. 

He shivers. 

"Sorry," Joan says. Her voice is small. She extracts herself from all of his tethers, but stays perched on the bed, just on the cusp of his nearsightedness. 

"Are my glasses somewhere?" He sounds brittle and plasticky, and it's a stupidly mundane question to lead with, given the circumstances. He should be concerned about far more consequential things.

Joan launches into a flurry of movement anyway. "Oh! Of course. They're right here." She reaches behind his head to pluck the frames from a countertop, then slides them onto his face. The gesture is utilitarian, he knows, nothing intimate about it. 

"Thank you," he says anyway. Joan sits, in focus now, back on the edge of the bed. 

"How do you feel?"

Owen takes a moment to catalog himself. There's the piercing pain beneath his ribs every time he inhales, which seems fairly self-explanatory, plus what feels like a very-bruised, possibly dislocated shoulder, a sore wrist beneath the IV lines, and a throbbing headache centered on his temple that flares up if he thinks about it too much. He can trace each injury back to the event that caused it, except for the stab wound; his memories of those last few moments are mercifully fractured and blurry. The pain is sharp, though. 

"Pretty awful, if I'm being honest," he summarizes. 

Joan twists her hands in her lap, looking miserable.

"I'm okay, though," Owen blurts, "Everything is--"

"Don't you _dare_ say everything is fine," she snarls, and he shuts his mouth so fast his teeth click together. 

She looks away. 

Owen isn't brave enough to try again, so he fidgets with his pulse-monitor instead. It emits an off-cadence beep, and he quickly stops. Silence, heavy and somber, weighs heavily between them.

"The doctors, um," Joan begins, her voice shaky and low like it gets when she's fighting to stay composed. "They said you were very lucky. If the scalpel had gone any deeper, if I hadn't stopped the bleeding for the paramedics…"

"Thank you," he interrupts, not prepared for the surge of nausea suddenly rising in his chest. "I'm sorry I put you through that." He flashes briefly, violently, on Dr. Sharpe's death. The tang of blood floods his nostrils, closes his throat, and he manages to say thickly, "It must have been awful."

Joan lets out a breathless laugh. She can't quite look at him, which is perfectly alright because he doesn't think he could stand this conversation if he had to meet her eyes.

"It was," she says, "But you're…"

"Fine?" he offers.

Her laugh turns watery, and she startles him by taking his hand and squeezing tight. A tear drips off the bridge of her nose. "Yeah.”

Owen feels sick. He _wants_ to be happy, wants to put the whole ordeal far, _far_ out of his mind, but he can’t stop picturing Dr. Sharpe’s body. He can feel her blood soaking into his slacks; he still feels paralyzed, unable to lift a finger to stop it. He'd seen people die before--accidental deaths at the AM, while definitely not common, still happened--but not like that. Never as grisly, or as cruel. 

And he’d never been so certain he was next. To be here, with Joan, _alive_ , feels uncomfortably surreal, like he's about to wake up back on the basement floor any second.

He swallows.

Joan looks up, worry for him coloring her expression. Tears are caught in the corners of her eyes, wetting her eyelashes, and Owen is almost overwhelmed with the urge to cry himself. He feels mushy; all kinds of unstable; like he wants to drop his head into Joan's lap and never move again.

 _This is not love,_ he tells himself fiercely. This is survivor's guilt. This is trauma. This is…it's just…

It's still totally love, and also all of those things, and he hates how they're all twisted and tangled together. It's stupid and embarrassing; he wants to squirm away; hates that everything he told Sam about not being able to move on was true. 

He really can't keep doing this. 

"Joan," he tries, "I think..." The rest of that sentence shrivels in Owen's throat. He tries again: "Do my parents know?"

Joan's gaze dips down, almost guiltily. "They know you're in the hospital, yes."

Owen's heart gives a lazy, off-kilter tug. Of course Joan has already thought to call them. Maybe she still had their numbers in her phone.

Joan dithers, which is uncharacteristic for her. "I, um, may have told them you got stabbed in an attempted mugging."

Owen blinks. 

"I'm sorry," Joan says hurriedly, "I didn't know what to tell them and you were in the ICU so I felt like I needed to call just in case--"

"No, that was good," Owen reassures just as quickly, ignoring the way his stomach flips at the implications of _'just in case.'_ "Good thinking."

"They're flying up this Friday to see you."

 _"Oh."_ This, more than anything so far, informs Owen exactly how dire the situation had been. His mother hates flying. "Wait, what day is today?"

"Wednesday."

"Oh wow." Three days. So much could happen in three days. 

"The AM will cover all of your medical costs, don't worry," Joan says hurriedly, misreading the startled look on his face. "Ellie doesn't want you to worry."

"No, that's not what I'm--I--uh." His head is spinning. This is quickly becoming too much to process. "That's just a lot of time. I didn't realize…Did Helen hurt anyone else?" he says, suddenly desperate for her reply and horrified at the thought of all that he's missed. "Is Alex alright? Sam and Mark and the others, are they all okay?”

“They’re all safe.” Joan sniffs and squeezes his palm again. "The serum worked."

"Oh thank God," Owen sighs. Relief, bittersweet and stinging, washes over him, and he can’t help but squeeze her hand a little in return. She’s so absurdly warm.

"Helen was taken into custody by the Order. The AM is completely empty and closed for now." Joan also sounds relieved, like a weight is lifted from her shoulders just by telling him this. "I can fill you in on all of the details later, if you want. But right now, you need to rest."

"I look that bad, huh?"

He must have made a face, because Joan gives him a deadpan stare. "You have a punctured lung and a serious concussion, Owen. You are on four weeks of mandatory bed rest, non-negotiable."

His heart sinks. He’d been looking forward, perhaps a little masochistically, to burying himself in something, smothering these new intrusive, paralyzing thoughts with paperwork. A month alone with himself is exactly the opposite of what he wants right now, no matter how much he's starting to think it might be exactly what he needs.

Joan must have read his expression correctly this time, because she’s quick to say, “Sam was going to offer you a spare bedroom in her house once you're discharged."

This genuinely catches Owen off guard, bringing his thoughts to a grinding halt. "I'm sorry?"

"The doctors say that your recovery will be fairly straightforward, but you'll still need to be monitored.” Joan shrugs. “Sam already has some medical equipment at her house and an empty bedroom. Several empty bedrooms, actually. It just makes sense."

"I don't know what to say." Owen tries and fails to picture living anywhere but his apartment. Once upon a time, it would have been all-too-easy to imagine, but now…and with _Sam_ , of all people. "I'll need to think about it."

"Of course." Joan is all-business now, her voice crisp and calm as ever. If he hadn’t seen her crying a few minutes ago, he’d never have believed it. She had always been better at compartmentalizing than he was. "But do think about it. We can't have our co-director relapsing on us."

He laughs at that. Joan smiles distantly, then slips her hand free from his, leaving his palm resting open and empty on the bedsheets. Something lonely in him aches. Goosebumps prickle along the inside of his arm.

"Joan, I--"

 _"Rest_ ," she interrupts. There's a warning in her tone, he thinks. 

Dr. Sharpe flashes into his mind again, unbidden. He thinks of Helen, and how he contributed to the conditions that forged her. He vaguely remembers dying himself, blood pouring from the stab wound and him babbling incoherently, saying all sorts of devastating, embarrassing things dredged up from places he thought he'd locked away and forgotten about; his body wracked with agony on the basement floor, Joan's face white above him, her hands _in_ his chest.

 _Enough_.

He closes his fist. “I think I should resign."

Joan’s grey eyes turn steely, and she crosses her arms over her lap, making the distance between them a very clear, physical thing. “And why on earth would you do that?”

“I’ve made a mess of things,” Owen sighs. She looks so condemning, so disappointed, he honestly just wants to slither beneath the covers and hide from the weight of her stare, but he feels pinned in place, his body heavy and sluggish. 

"I tried," he says, dragging his gaze up to meet hers, but it's a painful thing, and he darts away almost immediately, color burning in his cheeks. "I gave it my best shot, I really did, but I think it's time to throw in the towel. I'm not cut out for this." He hesitates. "I think we both knew me being director never going to work."

"You're _giving up,"_ Joan says icily.

That strikes a nerve. His chin snaps up. "I'm saying that people are _dead_ because of me."

“Dr. Sharpe is not on you.”

It as if his lungs have collapsed again, the way that punches the air out of them. 

“Yes, well, that’s what it means to be director, isn’t it?" he snaps; hates the way his voice wavers, " _Everything_ is on me."

Joan’s already shaking her head furiously. “You asked me to help _co-direct_ , Owen. We were supposed to hold each other accountable. We _both_ made a mess of things, okay? Let’s just…” She lets out an explosive sigh, perhaps conscious of how sharply her voice had risen, then settles into dissatisfied silence, her whole frame rigid with tension. 

“Let’s just what?” he asks, just to say something. He sounds hollow; exhausted. 

“Co-direct.”

He tips his head, confused. 

“Actually listen to each other,” she elaborates, her tone flat. “Never quite got the hang of that part, did we?”

“...I’m sorry.”

“No, stop, don't do that. _Listen_. I should’ve listened to you,” she says, both arms still crossed protectively across her chest, and she doesn’t leave him space to respond before she blurts, “You were right. I should have moved more slowly with the Tier Fives. If I’d been as cautious as you were--if I’d been _half_ as cautious as you wanted to be--or if we’d just taken a few extra days to research, we would’ve put two and two together and I never would have been in that room with Helen alone. So don't say this is all on you.”

She all but sneers the last words, snarling them into a command he’s helpless to not obey. It’s the same tone she used when she told him not to die. He’d heard the same note of fear in her voice then, too.

“Dr. Sharpe isn’t on you either, Joan,” he says gently, “You know that, right?”

She snorts, like she doesn’t believe him. 

His head aches. They’re painfully similar, aren’t they? He thinks that’s why he loves her. They just keep circling around and around, pining for perfection -- for _affirmation_ \-- prodding and poking each other, and for _what?_ To drown under their own ridiculous expectations? To stay trapped in the same skins they wore two years ago, repeating the same arguments over and over, never really changing or hearing one another?

Is it possible to start over?

His pulse flutters guiltily under his skin and he swallows, skitters over a memory of blood filling his throat. All the hindsight in the world won’t bring Dr. Sharpe back; won’t heal the hole in his chest, won’t un-make any of the decisions he made that landed him here.

“What happened...wasn’t anyone’s fault,” he says, canting his gaze down at his hands, the plastic oxygen tube twisted around his fingers. “It was a shitty situation all around. But I don’t--” His voice wobbles, and he takes a deep breath to recover. “I need some time, Joan,” he whispers, “Please. I need to get my head back on straight.” 

"Take all the time you need,” Joan says, graciously ignoring his stumble, then adds wryly, “At least four weeks.”

“Maybe longer?”

“As much as you need,” she emphasizes, then says just as firmly, “But you need to come back.” 

“Maybe,” he murmurs, letting his eyes slide shut. “We’ll see. You and Sam can manage just fine without me for a while, I’m sure.”

The last bit slips out before he’s aware he’s articulating it, and he hears Joan shift uneasily on the cot. He can imagine her expression pinching.

“Seriously, Owen. You need to come back,” she says. “I...don't trust myself to re-open the AM without you on board."

He looks at her then. Joan’s face is pink, and her gaze is dancing around the room, alighting on anything but him. In that moment, he feels like he can see her clearly for the first time since he woke up. Her clothes are different than what she was wearing in the AM, but rumpled, like she'd maybe spent a night or two in an uncomfortable hospital chair. Her hair is impatiently pulled up and pinned away from her face; silver hairs stand out like shooting stars on her temples; dark shadows hang under grey eyes. The beginnings of laugh lines crease the corners, but she's not laughing now. She's dead serious. 

Some tumultuous emotion bubbles up in Owen.

Dr. Joan Bryant admitting she needs someone. What a concept. 

He feels hot tears start to prickle his eyes and blinks hurriedly, but by then Joan is already speaking.

“You said once that you needed my...uh, ‘moral fortitude,’ I think was the phrase you used,” she says, and her impression of him is so unflattering he almost shreds into laughter.

“Sounds like me,” he manages, his voice thick.

She tips her chin up, graciously ignoring him trying not to cry. “Well, I need your skepticism sometimes,” she says, “And your patience.”

“Careful, Dr. Bright, my head’s already swollen,” he deflects, and now he’s the one desperate for somewhere else to look, because his heart feels like it’s spinning out of his chest, and he knows he’s not going to be able to hold it together if he looks her in the eye. This is too delicate; too familiar; entirely too close to what they had _before_ …

A hand peeks into his vision, extended for a handshake. 

“To listening to each other?” Joan offers. 

Owen swallows. Thinks it over.

"To starting fresh," he counters, and she gives him a small smile before clasping his hand, her skin warm and real against his. 

“To starting fresh.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love Owen, mostly because I think I see a lot of myself in him and in the sorts of mistakes he makes. I just wanted to give him the chance to live and learn from those mistakes, instead of dying scared and still believing that Wadsworth wasn't going to come to save him :')
> 
> This is also the first fanfic I've felt brave enough to publish in...almost a decade. It feels pretty good. Sorry about all the angst.


End file.
